the swing
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: They had a swing set in the backyard. It was made up of slim metal bars, with three little plastic seats descending from silver chains. Albus seemed to spend the most time on it, begging Ginny to come out and push him, willing to forgo snacks and nap time if his mother would just take him outside so he could feel the strength in his little legs as they kicked against the ground.


They had a swing set in the backyard. It was made up of slim metal bars, with three little plastic seats descending from silver chains.

Albus seemed to spend the most time on it, begging Ginny to come out and push him, willing to forgo snacks and nap time if his mother would just take him outside so he could feel the strength in his little legs as they kicked against the ground.

The other two children, James and Lily, enjoyed making the swings go up as high as they could, but Albus only ever asked for Ginny to keep him at a lower, safer height that made her feel a little more secure about him when she had to walk away from the five year old to take a phone call.

There were always phone calls to the Potter house; owls as well, always asking after Harry for some mission or to look over documents about a case.

Or they were looking for Ginny, demanding she go attend a game and write up an article by the next day.

For Ginny, it was a good week if she had seen the rest of her family for more than six hours and at least three days in that week.

The children had become accustomed to being put to bed by one parent and waking to the other.

Ginny didn't like it, but the idea of becoming a stay at home mum-like her own mother-had never appealed to Ginny; she would work as long as she could, because otherwise, she would only be reduced to hovering around the house, feeling useless and unnecessary.

Working meant long hours every day and it meant missing James lose his first tooth or missing Albus' first day of school.

Sometimes, Ginny didn't think being a journalist was worth it at all, not when she sometimes forgot what her own house even looked like, forgetting the worn cobble path up to the front door and the marks on the porch where her brother George had set off a firecracker for Lily's birthday.

Ginny sighed, turning to look at her five year old son, who was standing in the doorway of their kitchen, a question on lips, yet remaining unspoken.

She didn't have to ask him what he wanted, because Albus almost always came to her for requests of being pushed on the swing.

He came to her for little else, which hurt Ginny, because she knew he sometimes struggled to make the connection that this always leaving spectre in his life was actually his mother, and not just some stranger.

Albus hadn't asked Ginny to make him lunch or sing him a song in months, and he sometimes pulled away from hugs or kisses, looking into her eyes with a sense of unfamiliarity, like he could barely recognise her.

That hurt most of all, the way he guarded himself around Ginny, like she was a stranger instead of his mother.

She wanted to spend more time with her children-_Merlin_, did she ever want to spend time with her children, who seemed to barely even recognise their own parents-but she also wanted to work, wanted to be able to look at what she had accomplished and know she had done the best she could under the circumstances.

"Swing?" Albus asked her in that quiet voice that meant he wasn't sure if Ginny would say yes or if she would once again have to sigh and explain that she was _very busy right now_, and it wasn't a good time to go outside on the swing.

Ginny did her best to smile at him, hoping she could reassure her son that she really _did _love him very much and that he was one of the best thing to have ever happened to her.

But he was five, and Ginny hadn't seen him since Tuesday night, when she had tucked him in and offered to tell him a story, only to be told that Albus didn't care for a story tonight, thank you very much, though.

They had spoken of Ginny cutting back her hours or taking work home; Harry and Ginny had argued about it for hours on end, discussing the options available to her, all of which meant that work would only follow her home.

All of her options meant giving up and admitting that she wasn't as capable at pulling off both _Mum _and _Serious Reporter_.

Her male coworkers already made comments about how long it would be before Ginny dropped out, asking her mocking questions such as could she make them a sandwich or read them a story for nap time.

She wanted to slap them all, but instead, she just kept working, head held high. And cutting back on her work would only be like admitting to her coworkers that she just wasn't cut out for life as a reporter, as they always insisted she wasn't.

And why was it that the option of Harry cutting back his work time had never come up? Why was it that, when they discussed work versus the children, it was never Harry's job that was at risk?

But Ginny knew why: Harry was an Auror, and a damn good one, too. He helped people in so many ways that Ginny never would, helping to squash what remained of the _old days_, from when Voldemort was around.

Ginny was just a reporter writing articles about Quidditch instead of playing it because, after giving birth to Albus, she just hadn't been able to handle the physical regiment of training and games and the constant waking up in a different town or even a different country.

"Swing, Mummy?" Albus asked again, and Ginny nodded, because it was the least she could do for her son, who struggled some days to recognise her.

She took his hand, leading the five year old out to the swing set in their backyard, smiling as he told her all about his day.

She felt bad, knowing that he missed her, knowing that he just wanted to have his mother home all the time.

Ginny knew how he felt; she had wiped the tears out of his eyes when he begged her to stay home with him.

But she couldn't…she couldn't make herself quit, not even if it meant making her children happier. Ginny felt like a terrible person, admitting that her own children weren't enough to make her admit she wasn't able to handle the stress of being a working parent.

Yet it was true-she _truly _didn't want to quit. She didn't want to give up and fall to pressure like so many others had.

Ginny wanted to work and she wanted to be a mother. She wanted to be both, even though the world around her seemed so convinced that that was possible.

But when had Ginny ever done what anyone else wanted her to do? When had she ever obeyed anyone, falling to their wishes in exchange for her own?

And outside, in the backyard, as she pushed her youngest son on the swing, she felt that, just maybe, it was at least a little possible to combine the two.

It was stressful and exhausting and often heartbreaking, but why did any of that have to mean that it was impossible?


End file.
